Sojourn at Donwell
by Katson
Summary: Emma Woodhouse has been to Donwell more often than we might have been led to believe!
1. Chapter 1

Sojourn at Donwell

This story, which was inspired by "Emma 4," is my first such attempt. It takes place during the Christmas season prior to the year in which the events in the book occurred. I have taken liberties with JA's work, most notably as follows: First, Emma been to Donwell Abbey than often than the book or any of the movies would lead us to believe. Second, Emma has one heretofore unknown accomplishment – she plays the violin very well. Finally, I have borrowed the idea of a young author writing a fictitious history (as was done in a Mansfield Park adaptation). If you have not read Jane Austen's parody, "The History of England," written when she was 15 or 16, I commend it to you. Very clever!

***

Chapter 1

December 1813

The day dawned cloudy and gray, but Emma's spirits were not dimmed. After church service she was to venture to Donwell Abbey to play her violin in a Christmas concert. Emma's talent on the violin simply came naturally to her; it was a gift. Of course, had this ability not come so readily, Emma likely would have let her violin playing languish, as she did all things in which she did not immediately excel, including playing the pianoforte, speaking French, reading the classics … The list was not a short one, but she did not apologize for it, even when Mr. Knightley admonished her. Fortunately, he need not reprove her when it came to playing the violin. She did not even mind the tiny calluses that seemed to be permanently embedded on the fingertips of her left hand, where they pressed the violin strings against the fingerboard. They were a badge of one of her few true accomplishments -- and one that even Jane Fairfax had not attempted to equal, let alone exceed.

***

December 1810

Three years earlier, shortly after Emma's seventeenth birthday, Mr. Woodhouse had engaged a new maid for Emma. Sally Amos was the daughter of Andrew Amos, who had tended the vast gardens at Donwell Abbey for as long as Emma could remember. For generations Hartfield and Donwell had done their best to find positions for the offspring of their most trusted servants, and Sally, a shy but devoted young girl who was barely older than Emma, was delighted to have a situation at Hartfield, and as lady's maid to Miss Woodhouse, no less.

One morning, when Sally had been at Hartfield but a few weeks, Emma noticed Sally hovering near the door to the music room as she practiced. Uncharacteristically, Emma often enjoyed practicing the violin. Perhaps Jane Fairfax, unlike Emma, was capable of picking up a piece of music and, with but one glance, playing the notes with perfect grace on the pianoforte. But Jane Fairfax could not play the violin! True, Emma had to study the music carefully, but with just a little bit of patience – as much as even a fidgety Emma could muster – she played very well, indeed.

Emma had called to Sally to come out from behind the door that day, and Sally, in her shy but sincere way, had apologized profusely for having taken such a liberty. She had complemented Miss Woodhouse's playing, likening how her father, who so loved music and the violin, in particular, would have enjoyed Miss Woodhouse's playing immensely. Emma's vanity was, of course, flattered, and thereafter, Emma did not mind if Sally occasionally listened in for a few minutes as she practiced.

Even Mr. Woodhouse did not mind when he noticed Sally standing at the door, listening to Emma play. Mr. Woodhouse opined to Mr. Knightly that his younger daughter played the violin so delightfully, she might arrest all manner of work at Hartfield. "And you are lucky, Mr. Knightley, that Emma does not play at Donwell Abbey, for according to Sally, your gardener would equally succumb to Emma's playing," Mr. Woodhouse warned.

"Emma does, indeed, play splendidly," Mr. Knightley agreed with Mr. Woodhouse. "Emma, perhaps we should have you come play at Donwell. You could give a Christmas concert for the manor staff." It was common for the great landowners to host festivities for their tenants and servants at least once during the year, often at midsummer's eve, Michaelmas, or at the harvest. Mr. Knightley's harvest feast was considered among the most generous in all of Surrey. "They could gather all together at the Abbey and enjoy a festive afternoon of Christmas spirit. What do you say? Will you come play for us -- perhaps next Sunday, after church services? John and Isabella will be here at Hartfield by then, and they can escort your father home after the service."

Emma was flattered, but demurred, so as not to let on how much she might enjoy such admiration. "Oh no, Mr. Knightley. I simply couldn't! I don't play as well as that!" For added measure, she asked, "Don't you agree, Father?"

"Not play well?" Mr. Woodhouse responded, exactly as Emma had hoped he would. "Nonsense, Emma. You play beautifully! Donwell Abbey would be most lucky to have you perform!"

"Ah, then it is settled. Emma will perform for us at Donwell next Sunday. I'll have Mrs. Blakeley make the arrangements." Mr. Knightley gave a wry smile to Emma, as though he had read her mind. He well knew that she could not resist being the center of attention, and indeed, she could not.

***

At that first concert, three years earlier, Emma had been quite nervous when she entered the Abbey's great hall and had quickly counted six rows of six chairs – 36! – each soon to be occupied stiffly by a Donwell staff member in his or her finest clothes, face and nails scrubbed clean, hair neatly combed or pinned up. She noticed that Samuel, the stable boy, could barely keep his eyes from the side tables where piles of cold meats, pickled vegetables and sweets awaited. "Oh dear," thought Emma, as she watched Samuel. "They don't want to be here. They don't want to hear me play my silly violin. They are just here because the master of Donwell commands it. At least a hearty feast awaits them after I inflict my torture upon their ears." She instantly regretted that her vanity had put her in such a wretched situation.

When all was ready, Mr. Knightley had not sat, but rather had stood to the side, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, with a full view of his staff, as if to survey their reactions. When all were seated, he said, "I believe we ready to begin the concert," and the staff immediately quieted. "Please, Emma, do begin." And so she began to play, tentatively at first. It was a sad but elegant song that showed the full measure of her musical talents. She soon closed her eyes, as she always did when she let her heart take over her fingers and her bow, and she played splendidly.

When she finished the first piece, she lifted her bow and opened her eyes. For a brief moment, Donwell's audience sat silent, as though stunned. Mrs. Blakeley lifted a handkerchief to her eye to wipe away a tear and Sally's father, with a broad smile on his face, was the first to clap. He was immediately joined by one and another and in a moment, Emma was basking in the glow of a degree of flattery that even she had never known. She looked over to Mr. Knightley, who was applauding, too, a beam of approval spread across his face.

"Bravo, Emma, bravo. Well, Donwell," Mr. Knightley had called out to his group, "shall Miss Woodhouse play another?" To a chorus of enthusiastic "yeses" and "ayes," Emma had begun another piece, this one quite lively, outwardly diverting her eyes and smiling demurely, but silently reveling in her success.

"I wonder," she had thought, "what _Jane Fairfax_ is doing at this very moment?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

December 1813

Now, three years after that first Donwell concert, Emma and Mr. Knightley were heading to the Abbey in Mr. John Knightley's carriage, which had been secured for the occasion. Emma's prized violin was tucked carefully in its case on the seat next to her. Half way to Donwell, a few snowflakes began to fall. Emma, who had been looking out the window, said merrily, "Oh look, Mr. Knightley, it has begun to snow! We might have a white Christmas after all!"

"Lucky for Donwell that it hadn't started snowing during the service, or your father might have forbidden you to come. Are you willing to continue?" He looked at her with a slight smirk. "Or are you put off by a few snowflakes?"

"Nonsense. A little snow never bothered Emma Woodhouse," she replied cheerfully.

By the time the carriage arrived at Donwell, however, it had begun to snow in earnest. As the carriage stopped, Mr. Knightley said, "Emma, I don't know about this snow. There is barely an inch now, to be sure, but I can only imagine your father's concern. It might turn into a full-fledged storm. Perhaps Donwell ought to forgo the pleasure of Miss Woodhouse's Christmas concert this year. Perhaps I'd best take you home directly."

Emma was alarmed. "Oh no, Mr. Knightley! I so look forward to this day each year. The snow isn't so bad, really. Can't we go in? Please?" Emma looked quite precious as her large eyes implored him. Through so many years of knowing this mischievous young lady, Mr. Knightley had never acquired a taste for disappointing her. Perhaps against his better judgment, he agreed that Emma's part in Donwell's festivities would be assured for the afternoon.

As she entered Donwell, Emma was met by Mrs. Blakeley. Mr. Knightley's housekeeper always provided a lovely Christmas display, but this year she had outdone herself. Moreover, Emma had forever been a favorite with her, and Mrs. Blakeley made no pretense of hiding it. In her green velvet dress, Spencer jacket of green plaid and her matching cap, Emma appeared the epitome of Christmas spirit. Mrs. Blakely quickly swept her away from the door, admiring her outfit, showing her the decorations she'd supervised in the great hall, pointing out the lovely feast that was at the ready for the staff and, all in all, fussing over Emma in a way that delighted them both. Mr. Knightley smiled as he watched their enthusiastic interactions.

This year's violin concert delighted the Donwell staff, as it had done in each preceding year. But while much of Emma's audience seemed enthralled and Emma herself was obviously lost in the sweet strains of her music, Mr. Knightley could only watch warily through the windows as the wind blew and the snow fell at a still steadier pace. "This was badly done, George," he admonished to himself. "You should have taken Emma home when there will still a chance. There'll be no leaving till it stops now, and Mr. Woodhouse will be sick with worry. Badly done."

When Emma's concert was over, Mr. Knightley led the applause, and Emma curtseyed gracefully, outwardly feigning modesty but inwardly delighting in the recognition. Mr. Knightley then graciously called on the audience to continue the festivities at the buffet. He and Emma would scarcely dine, however, as this was a celebration for Donwell's fine staff. He pulled her aside quietly. "Emma, I am so sorry, but the snow is continuing unabated. I fear the carriage might not be able to safely take you home any time soon. I really don't doubt that we would be fine if we left at this very moment, but if your father saw that I'd ventured out with you in this weather, he'd never forgive me. I fear that it is better that you stay here for the time being, where you are at least safe and warm."

"Oh, dear. I was so lost in playing that I'd completely forgotten about the snow." She looked glumly out the large windows, and could see nothing but darkness, though it was still early. "Father and Isabella will be so worried. And Miss Taylor would be, too, were she not visiting her sister for the holidays. It's my fault, Mr. Knightley. You wanted to take me home straight away, and I refused. Once again, Emma should have listened to Mr. Knightley. Oh, why am I so stubborn?"

"No, it's not your fault, Emma. And, I suppose neither of us should berate ourselves, as there is nothing to be done about it now. We'll have to wait and see. Perhaps the snow will stop soon. In the meantime, come, stand here, closer to the fire. I won't have you catching cold on top of it all."

As Emma moved nearer to the imposing fireplace, she said, "Hmmm, Mr. Knightley, it has occurred to me that those of your staff who do not live in the house – those who live in the manor buildings down the lane – might have quite a cold and wet walk awaiting them after dinner. So I was thinking, perhaps you might offer them to go home now, before the weather worsens? Mrs. Blakeley could order chargers and towels to be brought in, and then your staff could take their dinner with them now and have a safer journey home." She saw, to her dismay, that Mr. Knightley was eyeing her quite intently, so that she almost blushed. "I'm sorry," she said, looking down at her shoes. "I did not mean to interfere. It was just a thought…."

"An excellent one, at that, Emma, and one I should have thought of myself. Thank goodness Donwell has you here to keep things right." And with that, he called for Mrs. Blakeley to arrange for the chargers. As he made the announcement to his staff, Emma could see the relief on several faces as they gave their thanks to the master of Donwell Abbey for his thoughtfulness and understanding.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Later, after the festivities had concluded, Mr. Knightley said to Emma, "I fear there will be no venturing to Hartfield this evening, so I've asked Mrs. Blakeley to prepare a guest room for you. I hope that is alright with you." They had retreated to a parlor, each taking a wing chair in front of the large fireplace, as Mr. Knightley's two dogs curled up on the rug in front of them.

"Thank you, Mr. Knightley. Mrs. Blakeley has already mentioned it to me and yes, of course it is alright. Although I hope I will not put you out too much, as I am in intruding on your tranquility here at Donwell."

"Well, at least my dogs don't seem to mind your presence too much."

Emma laughed and called to one of them and patted her knee, and in a moment's time the dog's head was in her lap, its tail wagging as she rubbed both of it ears. "Indeed, they do not!" she laughed, but then changed her tone. "Truly, though, I only wish there were a way to put Father at ease from a distance."

Mr. Knightley agreed wholeheartedly with that worrisome sentiment. But he did not want Emma to dwell on such thoughts, so he changed to conversation to lighter topics. Their banter continued easily, until before they knew it, Mrs. Blakeley entered to announce that supper would be served in an hour, and "perhaps Miss Woodhouse would like to go up to her room to prepare?" Emma had no proper clothes to change into for supper, but at least she could freshen up, so she took her leave of Mr. Knightley and left the parlor with Mrs. Blakeley.

A few minutes later, Mr. Knightley decided it was time to dress for supper, as well. As he turned the corner from the parlor into the hallway, he found Emma speaking with Mrs. Blakeley and one of the maids, and he could not help but notice that Emma's cap was in her hand and her hair had spilled in a mass of curls around her shoulders and down her back.

"Oh, Mr. Knightley, you have found me out!" she said. "I was running late this morning, fetching my violin and music, and did not have time to properly put up my hair before we had to leave for church services. It was all I could do to tuck my hair into my cap. Miss Taylor would be dismayed to see that I left Hartfield … so…. so …. dishabille! But Mrs. Blakeley and Rebecca are going to bring some pins for my hair, so you need not worry that I will look so unkempt at supper."

"Well, I am the first to say that I know nothing of ladies' fashions," said Mr. Knightley, "but if it were up to me, I would say that it would be most pleasing to see you wear your hair at supper just as it is now. You needn't feel compelled go to any trouble on _my_ account, Emma."

"Oh Mr. Knightley, how you tease me." Emma rolled her eyes at him and turned to Mrs. Blakeley. "Thank you, Mrs. Blakeley. I'll go up to the guest room now, though I fear there is precious little I can do to make myself presentable for supper with so fine gentleman as _Mr. Knightley_." Emma looked back at him as she added that sarcastic emphasis; she was fully capable of teasing him right back.

A half hour later, Mr. Knightly, handsomely dressed for supper, left his bedroom and approached the door to the guest room, knocking tentatively. "Come," he heard Emma say.

"It is Mr. Knightley," he said. He was not about to walk directly into her room without announcing himself.

A moment later, Emma opened the door. "Good evening, Mr. Knightley." She looked down at the large silver box he was holding.

"I thought you might be able to use these, Emma," he said, and he lifted back the lid to reveal a beautiful brush and comb set, their backs plated in lustrous silver, laid on a lining of deep blue velvet.

"Oh, they are so lovely. They were…," she hesitated and looked up at him, "…your mother's?"

"Yes, but you may use them, as you have no brushes of your own this evening."

"I do appreciate the offer, Mr. Knightley," she said solemnly, "but I don't know if I should. Perhaps you should save them for …. the next Mrs. Knightley?"

Mr. Knightley couldn't help but laugh at Emma's serious demeanor. "Emma, my dear, as I do not foresee the existence of the next Mrs. Knightley, so as long as you are here at Donwell, I would be pleased if you would use them."

Emma smiled earnestly as she carefully took the box. "Well, then, I shall take good care of them. Thank you ever so much, Mr. Knightley. I shall see you at supper."

There wasn't much for Emma to do to dress for the evening, so she had declined the help of a maid. She had parted with the plaid Spencer jacket and then removed her high collared underdress, both to give Mrs. Blakely more time to have it laundered before morning, and to leave her with a more formal appearance, one that would be more suitable for supper. She sat at the dressing table, looking at her reflection and rather liking the low neckline of her velvet gown, thinking that her outfit, though simple, was quite smart looking. She slowly pinned up a few strands of hair with the pins Mrs. Blakeley had provided. But she suddenly stopped and eyed the green velvet ribbon Mrs. Blakeley had also brought for her. She quickly pulled the pins out, brushed her long hair with Mrs. Knightley's elegant hairbrush, then grabbed the velvet ribbon and carefully looped it around the top of her head, tying the ends behind her neck. "Hmmm! I haven't worn my hair like this since I was a child," she thought. "But if this is how Mr. Knightley wants to see me this evening, so he shall."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Supper was a simple offering, but since neither Mr. Knightley nor Emma had eaten much during the afternoon fest, they both ate heartily. Their conversation was light, though from time to time, Emma's eyes would drift to the window and the snow-blown darkness beyond, and Mr. Knightley could not help but notice each time her brow furrowed with worry.

After supper, Emma asked Mr. Knightley if she might have paper and quill to write a letter. "I shall write to Father and tell him about my visit to Donwell."

"Oh course, Emma. But why write to your father? You shall see him at the very moment he receives your letter, and you can tell him yourself."

"Well, at least he will know that I have been thinking of him. I know he is concerned, even though I also know that there is nothing to be done about it. But when he reads my letter he will see, after the fact at least, that I have been in perfect felicity. It might make him feel better."

The letter written, she showed it to Mr. Knightley for his approval. He read it with interest, laughing out loud at her description of the stable boy precariously piling lemon biscuits onto his charger. And he could not help but be pleased when he read, "_I know that you and Isabella are worrying over me, Father, and I am truly sorry for that. But I must ask you, is there any gentleman in the world, excepting yourself, of course, who is more concerned for my welfare and who would take better care of me than Mr. Knightley? No, I think not, and surely you and Isabella will agree: Emma is safe and well at Donwell_."

Later, they played backgammon, but Emma's mind continued to be preoccupied with thoughts of her father, and Mr. Knightley took four games in a row. "It's been a long day for you, Emma. Would you like to retire now?"

"No, Mr. Knightley, not just yet, if you please. It's still early, and I don't think I could sleep. Perhaps we can read for a bit, in front of the fire? Will you read to me, like you used to do?"

"Very well, Emma." Mr. Knightley got up, perused some books and picked one out, and returned to one of the two large chairs in front of the fire. To his surprise, Emma did not claim the matching chair, but took a pillow from the bench, set it at the foot of his chair, and sat down, gracefully tucking her legs underneath her to one side.

"I shall sit here, as I did when I was a child and you used to read to me. Since you think of me that way this evening, it seems appropriate," she said pleasantly.

"Think of you what way?" Mr. Knightley asked.

"As a child."

"As a child? Why do you say that?"

"Well, you said you'd like to see me to wear my hair down this evening, which is as I used to do when I was a little girl. So I thought that you meant …" Emma could see from his quizzical look that she was mistaken, and her voice trailed off.

"My dear Emma, I did not make that remark about your hair because you reminded me of a little girl. I made that remark simply because I thought your hair looked … well …. quite nice." He hesitated, but she did not respond immediately, so he continued, "Emma, why do you suppose society calls for girls to wear their hair down but women to wear their hair up?"

"Well, I never thought about it. Perhaps … perhaps it's because ladies want to look more … sophisticated … by wearing their hair up," she suggested.

"That may be," said Mr. Knightley, "but…." He leaned down towards her and lowered his voice, as though he wanted to be sure that no one else would hear. ("Though there is no one else in the room, anyway," Emma mused.) He continued, "It may be that society has realized that when a beautiful lady wears her hair in soft curls flowing about her shoulders, and then she converses with a gentleman about, oh, snow storms or the Prince Regent or Christmas gifts for nephews and nieces or …. any topic, really, all the while that gentleman might be preoccupied with thinking, 'I wonder what her lovely curls would feel like if I were to run my fingers through them?' So, you see, it might be _quite_ distracting to a gentleman if a lady would regularly wear her hair down." He sat up and attempted to stifle a grin.

Emma's face colored when realized that every topic he had just suggested was, indeed, one they had covered at supper, and Mr. Knightly chuckled when he saw that she understood his joke.

"He's teasing me again," thought Emma, chagrined. But true to her nature, she was not going to let it pass without at least a little bit of retribution. So she glared at him defiantly, reached over and took his large hand in her smaller one, and before he could react, led it behind her head and into her hair, where she could feel his fingers meet with her curls. She thought she saw his eyes widen for a moment, just before she said, sweetly, "There, Mr. Knightley, so at least _this_ gentleman needn't wonder what a lady's curls feels like!"

Mr. Knightley drew his hand back immediately, as though he had touched a hot coal. "Good heavens, Emma! You have obviously grown into a woman not to be trifled with!"

Emma looked away, towards the fire, so he would not see her triumphant grin. "Oh, do you really think so, Mr. Knightley?" she asked, mockingly demure. "What an interesting development, don't you think? And so … what book have you chosen to read to me this evening?"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

It was still snowing the next morning. "There can be no thought of taking Emma home even now," Mr. Knightley thought dolefully, as he looked out the window of his bedroom, "and I am very sorry that she will continue to worry so about her father, and he about her."

A few minutes later, when he went downstairs, Mr. Knightley was surprised that he was not greeted by his two dogs. They were allowed to sleep in the Abbey in inclement weather, and while they were trained never to ascend the stairs, they instinctively knew the moment he began his descent, pacing and wagging their tails fiercely as they waited for him below. This morning, however, when he reached the foot of the grand staircase, the dogs were nowhere in sight.

"Good morning, Mr. Knightly," Mrs. Blakely greeted him brightly. "Miss Woodhouse is up. She is in the parlor off the great hall. There's a nice fire going in there."

"Very well. Have you seen the dogs this morning, Mrs. Blakeley?"

"Indeed, sir. They are with Miss Woodhouse."

An engaging sight greeted Mr. Knightly as he reached the doorway to the parlor. Emma sat on a cushion in front of the fire; one dog had its large head in her lap, being petted by her, and the other lay on its back, leaning into her as Emma rubbed its tummy with her other hand.

"Well, I see two happy creatures this morning. Did you sleep well, Emma?" As he spoke, the dog on its back jumped up and wagged its tail, while the other barely lifted it head to look at him. Neither stirred from Emma's reach, however.

Emma turned back towards Mr. Knightley. "_Three_ happy creatures, you should say. Good morning, Mr. Knightley. Yes, I slept well. Thank you. Though I must admit to being very disappointed to see the weather continue as it is."

Mr. Knightley decided to do his best to preclude Emma from dwelling on her father's concern, so he said, "Yes, I am disappointed, as well, but … also disappointed that you have stolen my dogs' affection! They greet me every morning without fail. And now that Miss Emma Woodhouse has been here less for than one day, they seem to have forgotten that I am their lord and master!"

"Well, you are still their lord and master, Mr. Knightley; I won't take that away from you. But can I help it if they find me so irresistible?" She rubbed both dogs' ears and laughed as they wagged their tails and moved in to lick her face, almost succeeding in knocking her backwards.

"Here here!" Mr. Knightley called both dogs away and helped her up. He laughed, "You know, I suspect that if the two of us were caught in a burning building and my dogs could save but one of us, they would choose to save _you_, Emma!"

"Oh, but surely they would be very sorry to see you go," Emma replied impishly.

"Such imprudence!" he said with mock dismay, then added lightly, "I am glad that you seem so at home here, Emma. It may make your imprisonment seem less severe. Now, then, are you ready for breakfast? A little toast with your orange marmalade, perhaps?" How well he knew her!

"Well, I must say that a little bit of breakfast and a large portion of marmalade will do wonders to improve the terms of my detention, not to mention my disposition." She smiled and accepted the arm he offered, and he led her to breakfast.

At breakfast, Mr. Knightley reported that as Christmas was but three days away, he would not need to meet that week with Donwell's overseer, William Larkins. He had the day at leisure to see to Emma's good spirits, and he would be happy to consider any entertainment she might propose, though he did hope he might listen to her practice the violin for a time. Emma said she would be more than happy to oblige. She also suggested that she would find it most interesting if Mr. Knightley could tell her about the Knightley ancestors whose portraits hung in the great hall. Of course, she recognized the portrait of his parents and the Knightley boys, but she had always been at a loss as to the identity anyone else. "I am chagrined to admit that I've likely forgotten the stories behind many of them," he replied, "but Mrs. Blakeley should be of assistance to us there."

Later that morning, Mrs. Blakeley was happy to help as they perused the portrait gallery. She even pulled out the Knightley family bible, and the three of them slowly circled the room, with Mr. Knightley and Mrs. Blakeley reciting what they could remember and, where needed, referring to the Knightley family tree that had been recorded carefully over many pages in the bible. They managed to create a fairly coherent history of the family. Where Mrs. Blakeley's memory failed her, or where they knew of no history to be told, Mr. Knightley might make up a story to see if he could make Emma laugh. Emma would then take him up on his outrageous claims, embellishing them even more, while Mrs. Blakeley could only shake her head in amusement at their repartee.

The portrait that Emma loved most was of Mr. Knightley's mother, painted when she was a young bride. The beautiful Mrs. Knightley was dressed in the height of fashion for the day, in a vivid blue gown, elegantly trimmed with a narrow band of fur, with a deep décolletage, tight bodice, and panniers accentuating her tiny waist. Her coiffure was a high white wig and she carried a graceful folding fan. Emma remarked she found the outfit breathtakingly beautiful, though she could not imagine how ladies of the day really managed to dress in such a fashion.

"Oh, it is a beautiful dress, indeed," agreed Mrs. Blakeley.

"You actually saw it, then?" inquired Emma.

"Oh yes, though it's been some time, now. It is up in the wardrobe room, carefully preserved. It is truly exquisite."

Emma's eyes widened with curiosity. "The wardrobe room?"

"Yes," explained Mr. Knightley. "It is a large room on the third floor, in which there is quite an assortment of memorabilia, odds and ends, and the like, mostly clothing and furniture. Even some pieces of armor, though not enough to make a complete suit. I remember John and I getting into all sorts of mischief up there on rainy days, playing at whatever games boys invent. I always crowned myself King Arthur, so I could order around John as Sir Gawain or Lancelot. When our nephews are a bit older, I'll take them up there and let them have at it. Would you like to see the room? We might do so this afternoon."

"I'd love to!" she replied enthusiastically.

"Well, I'll see that the room is at the ready. I'll have a fire started now, or it'll feel like an ice palace in there, to be sure," offered Mrs. Blakeley.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

That afternoon, as she walked about the large wardrobe room, Emma felt as though she'd stumbled into a treasure trove. The room had a floor lined with cedar and a simple brick fireplace in which a glowing fire burned. The several candelabras that Mrs. Blakeley had arranged about the room cast a golden light. It was not as dusty as Emma had expected, and the fire made it feel quite cozy, while the faint cedar smell tickled her nose. Mrs. Blakeley moved slowly about the room, carefully removing some of the heavy muslin and canvas sheets that covered the various items of furniture, chests, clothing forms and other objects, so Emma could walk about and admire the display. Mr. Knightley encouraged her to open some of the chests to see what might be hiding inside.

The first chest she opened contained baby clothes – tiny knitted booties, a simple cotton lawn dress, a cap embroidered with blue stitches. "Oh, look! It is hard to imagine that you were ever this size, Mr. Knightley!" She laughed as she held up a dress.

"Hmm, about the size you were when I first met you."

"And when you first met me, did you not think me a well-behaved and pretty baby, Mr. Knightley?"

"Pretty, to be sure. And let's just say that you were … a lively one."

"Ah, how very diplomatic of you," she laughed.

Emma could not believe the variety of the treasures around her. She spotted the armor about which Mr. Knightley had spoken, a partial suit of chain mail, a child's table and rocking horse, two screens that were at least six feet high, each painted with delicate Chinese scenery, and a heavy velvet cloak that was a hundred years old if it was a day. She admired each in turn. She laughed at a rust-colored gentlemen's suit, trimmed six inches deep in lace and gold braid, with matching two-inch heeled shoes trimmed with large gold buckles. "Here, Mr. Knightley. Look at this suit. Perhaps you can wear this to supper this evening. How handsome you would look."

Before Mr. Knightley could reply to her jest, Mrs. Blakeley called out, "Here it is, Miss Woodhouse. I have found the gown that Mrs. Knightley wore in her portrait."

Emma skipped to the other side of the room, where Mrs. Blakeley had unveiled the ball gown. It was more beautiful in person than in the painting, and Emma marveled that the heavy blue silk was still so vivid in color, and the white fur trim was still so soft to the touch. Next to the gown, carefully tucked away in a canvas bag encased in a wooden box, was the white wig that Mrs. Knightley had worn. Mrs. Blakeley unwrapped it and called Emma closer. "Here, Miss Woodhouse, why don't you try it on." She placed it on Emma's head, and tucked away all vestige of her own hair.

"Goodness, it is quite heavy. But I can see that it must do wonders for a lady's posture. One must stand very straight. I'm almost afraid to move! What do you think, Mr. Knightley? Shall I dance the minuet?" She held her arms out to her sides and warily began a curtsy, not daring to move her head to one side or the other even an inch.

"Well done, Emma. You look ready to have your portrait done. But I wouldn't suggest a minuet just yet. Heaven forbid, you might lean too much to one side or the other. That might be the end of you," he laughed.

"Perhaps Miss Woodhouse might like to try the gown on, if Mr. Knightley does not mind? I am certain that it would fit you. We could use one of these large screens," suggested Mrs. Blakeley.

"Oh, the dress is too precious. I am sure it is best left untouched."

"No, no, it's alright. Go ahead, Emma. It might fun for you." With approval sought and received, Mr. Knightley moved one of the Chinese screens in front of the dress, and removed himself to the other end of the room to give the ladies privacy. He could hear Emma giggling and Mrs. Blakeley cooing instructions. He heard Emma say, at various times, "This is impossible!" and "How did they manage it?" and "I don't know about this" and then "Goodness me, are your sure this is proper, Mrs. Blakeley?" and he heard Mrs. Blakeley say, "It's a few inches too short, but no matter," and "Now take a deep breath, Miss Woodhouse. Yes, there you go!" Finally, Mrs. Blakeley emerged from behind the screen and called to Mr. Knightley to say that "Mademoiselle Woodhouse" was ready to be presented.

Mr. Knightley put down the long bow he had been fingering and threaded his way around the chests and furniture, until he stood in front of the screen. He smiled broadly, clasped his hands behind his back and said, "Very well, I am ready to be introduced to Mademoiselle Woodhouse. Or should I say, 'Mademoiselle Chateau de Bois'?" He laughed at his own word-play.

Slowly and carefully, Emma stepped from behind the screen, sashayed her way so she stood across from him, smiled demurely and curtsied gracefully. "Enchanté de faire votre connaissance, Monsieur Knightley."

Emma looked ravishing. The gown left her shoulders bare and its daringly low neckline revealed a bosom that could only be described as voluptuous. The contrast of blue dress and white coiffure made her smooth skin seem even creamier, her bright eyes even larger and her pink lips fuller than ever before. Mr. Knightley opened his mouth to speak but no words came out. Emma's face fell when she saw his countenance. "Oh! You do not like it. I look ridiculous. I shall change immediately." She took a step back.

"No, no, Emma. Forgive me, my little friend. It's just that … it's just that … well, you look … like a princess in a fairy tale. Have you dropped a glass slipper somewhere? Hmm? Is your Prince Charming hiding under a sheet or in one of these chests?" He grinned and held out his hand to her. "Come, turn around for me, and let me see how splendid you look in your ball gown." Emma took his hand and he slowly turned her about, making her giggle at his exaggerated efforts to avoid the wig on her head and the panniers of the gown as he did so. "You look lovely. Doesn't she, Mrs. Blakeley?"

Emma wanted to breathe a huge sigh of happiness at that moment, but she realized that the lacing of the gown was so tight that she could not! She laughed at herself and thought blissfully, "Lucky for me that I live in the modern age. Otherwise, I'd have to protest wearing such constricting attire all the time. It is enough for me to pretend to be alluring for just a few minutes!"


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

When Emma's second morning at Donwell dawned equally as stormy as the preceding one, both she and Mr. Knightley were sorely disappointed. Mr. Knightley also regretted to inform her that he had some paperwork – parish business – that needed attending, so he hoped she did not mind keeping herself occupied for a time. He offered Donwell Library as a possible source for a book or two from her fine reading list.

"Oh, I can keep entertained, I assure you. I have a project in mind, if you can spare paper and quill for me."

"Another letter? You just wrote to your father again last night. Tell me what has occurred since then that you might write about? I daresay life at Donwell is not _that_ exciting," he cajoled her.

"Oh, not a letter. Something …. else," she said rather slyly. "I shall say nothing more about it at the moment. But I promise to let you read it when I am through."

"Ah, a mystery. I am not fond of secrets, but I shall make an exception in this case. I look forward to the revelation of this one. Come, let's go to my office, where there is a fine fire going. We'll put the writing table in front of the fireplace, and you can write there while I work on my accounts."

They settled comfortably into the office, Emma seated pleasantly at a small table in front of the fire, and Mr. Knightley behind the great desk from which he ran all of Donwell's affairs. They said few words to one another, but there was no awkwardness in their silence. The only sounds that could be heard were the low and steady rush of the wind outside, the crackling fire, the rustling of Mr. Knightley's account books, and the scratching of Emma's quill. He looked over at her often, not at all distracted by her, but more curious about what she was writing. For the life of him, Mr. Knightley could not imagine what it was. Emma excused herself at one point, and returned about a half hour later.

They had been in the office for nearly three hours when Mr. Knightley finally put aside the last ledger, leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, and said, "So, what it is that you are writing Emma? A novel, perhaps?"

"A novel? Well, I do not wish to give specifics. It's a surprise, but I will tell you it is _not_ a novel. It is a just a project. More a work of … non-fiction. Though not exactly."

"Non-fiction? Well, I had no idea you'd become a scholar, Emma."

"One day I might surprise you with my accomplishments, Mr. Knightley. But you will just have to wait and see." She looked over at him mischievously, then turned back to her papers.

He decided a little good-natured provocation was in order. "And when will I be allowed to read this surprising work of not-exactly non-fiction?"

"When it is finished, Mr. Knightley," she said, without looking over at him.

"And when do you expect that to be?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

Emma let out a feigned sigh of exasperation, but kept writing and still did not look up. "On how many interruptions I must parry."

"I see. Is that your way of telling me that I should stop asking questions and let you get back to your surprising work of not-exactly non-fiction?"

She still did not look up. "I always said that you were perceptive and had a keen mind, Mr. Knightley," she said saucily.

"And I always said that you were capable of accomplishment, if you put your mind to it, Emma," he replied with a laugh. Finally, she looked over at him, tilted her head and wrinkled her nose at him. He smiled knowingly.

Later that day, after tea and refreshments had been brought and Emma had played her violin for almost an hour, Emma announced that she was ready to share her "project" with Mr. Knightley. She hoped she might do so in the great hall. Mr. Knightly, his curiosity up, enthusiastically led the way. Once there, Emma bade him stand in the center of the room and handed him a sheaf of paper. He studied it, realizing quickly that it was a map of the room. On the page Emma had drawn a large rectangle in the shape of the room, and inside the edges of the rectangle she had drawn several smaller boxes of varying sizes. Each of the smaller rectangles was marked with a letter, from "A" to "T," though the letters were not in order, and instead were interspersed seemingly randomly around the map. The fireplace and tables were also marked, as were the several display cases.

"I should like to read my project to you, Mr. Knightley. I will be walking about the room as I read, and you are welcome to follow me. As a temperamental author, however, I ask that you save any questions you may have for the end. May I begin?" Mr. Knightley smiled and nodded his assent.

Emma began with the title page:

_A Creative History of the Knightley Family_

_Written by an Anonymous, Misinformed and Apologetic Author_

_During a Snowy Sojourn at Donwell Abbey_

_December 1813_

She stopped and looked up, relieved to see a little smile on Mr. Knightley's face, so she continued:

_Author's Note_

_The author has provided to the reader herewith a map of the Great Hall at Donwell Abbey, for use as a key to the fine portraiture in the Hall that served as the inspiration for this work. Each portrait has been lettered on the map. The letters do not appear sequentially on the map, for which the author apologizes, but this work proceeds in chronological order, and alas, the placement of the portraits was not made in a similar fashion. The author commends the reader to view each portrait prior to reading the history of its subject._

Now Emma was made more confident by the grin that Mr. Knightley made no attempt to hide. She continued again:

_Portrait "A". This portrait is of Sir Robert Dalbin. Sir Robert was knighted by King Henry VII, first monarch of the House of Tudor, in 1486, in recognition for his exemplary service to the House of Lancaster during the War of the Roses, most particularly at the Battle of Boswell Field. In addition to his knighthood, Sir Robert was bestowed in perpetuity with many thousands of acres of land in the beautiful county of Surrey. This fine land would become known as "Donwell," as it was Sir Robert's reward for having "done well" in service to the man who was to become King._

_Portrait "B". This portrait is of the eldest son of Sir Robert, Mr. George Dalbin, who inherited Donwell in 1498. He was the builder of the first permanent seat of Donwell Parish. The original Donwell Abbey consisted of a sadly non-descript stone castle and chapel. Fortunately, the castle and the outlines of its battlements would eventually be superseded by the current Donwell Abbey (which, with its magnificent renaissance architecture, would not be built until well over a hundred years later). It was during Mr. Dalbin's tenure that the town of Highbury was established within the borders of Donwell Parish. Though Sir Robert's title had died with him, as a knighthood cannot be inherited, his son George was everywhere referred to as "Sir George." Mr. Dalbin often protested this unearned courtesy and forbade its use, but it was agreed by all that Mr. Dalbin was such a fine master of Donwell, and acted in every manner as befitted a knight, that while they could not properly call him "Sir George," they could agree that he was "knightly" in everything but name. In fact, so regularly did the people of Donwell and its environs refer to Mr. Dalbin as "Mr. Knightly," that the family eventually adopted that has its formal name (with a slight change in spelling, as more befitted a surname, of course). If truth be told, the Knightley's were glad to leave behind their old name with its clear French originations ("D'Albin")._

Emma continued to read from her written work, occasionally glancing up at Mr. Knightley to gauge his reaction or to laugh out loud with him. She continued to walk about the room, stopping in front of the next portrait, and then reading from her work, until finally she came to the last entry, which was a short one.

_Portrait "T". Our final portrait is of the present Master of Donwell Abbey and Donwell Parish and Magistrate of Kingston and Highbury, the kind and learned Mr. George Knightley. The author can only opine that history of this fine gentlemen has yet to be written._

Emma looked up from the last page and taking after a deep breath, pronounced, "The end."

smiled broadly and clapped his hands. "Bravo, Emma, bravo! Well done! That was marvelous!"

"Did you really like it? Is _was_ a bit silly in parts, I know…."

"I enjoyed every bit, truly I did, and it wasn't silly at all. It was high comedy at times to be sure, but that was certainly not lost on _this_ audience. I've always said that you are a clever girl, Emma, and this accomplishment proves my point. On behalf of all of my Knightley forebears, I thank you sincerely for your excellent efforts. May I keep your work, Emma? I should think Mrs. Blakeley would enjoy it. And John. I think I shall make it part of Donwell Library, for the edification and enjoyment of future Knightley's."

Emma laughed with delight. Throughout her life, Mr. Knightley had never been liberal with his praise for her (except, perhaps, when she played her violin). Emma knew it was not because he was ungenerous, but rather because it was not in his nature to give a compliment where none was due. Consequently, she valued his approval enormously.

"I am so glad you think so, Mr. Knightley. You are most welcome, and I thoroughly enjoyed my research with you and Mrs. Blakeley. You may show it to Mrs. Blakeley, of course, but I fear your brother would pass it off as the product of a silly and fanciful young mind. I think I'd prefer that you hide it in your library forthwith, as Donwell's collection of books is so vast that I may be lucky enough to never have anyone find it again!"

"Nonsense! I shall have it bound in leather, map and all, and kept on the front table in the great hall for all visitors to enjoy."

"Oh don't you dare! I couldn't bear it. I may have styled myself as anonymous in this trifling work, but I heaven forbid that secret should become known!" Her ire was not even remotely serious, because at that moment Emma could not have been happier.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Emma's third morning at Donwell was Christmas Eve. Thankfully, the snow and wind had stopped during the previous evening, and the day dawned crisply, with blue skies and bright sunshine presiding over a world blanketed in white. Mr. Knightley was delighted. Emma could finally go home! Not that he had minded her stay at all, but certainly she was keenly in mind of her father, Isabella and Hartfield. He went downstairs, and twice asked Mrs. Blakeley if Emma was up yet. With no sign of her in sight after almost an hour, he finally bounded up the stairs, and seeing the chamber maid, asked if Miss Woodhouse had awakened yet. "I don't believe so, sir. I've been in twice this morning, once to start the fire and then a few minutes ago, to tend to it and make sure the room is warm enough, and she did not stir. Miss Woodhouse seems to be sleeping quite soundly."

"Hmm, and are the draperies drawn?"

"The draperies are closed, Mr. Knightley. I did not want the sunlight to awaken her, so I did not open them. Shall I, sir?"

"No, no, Rebecca. That'll be all. Thank you." The maid bowed her head, curtsied and quickly scurried down the hall and out of sight.

Mr. Knightley went to the door of the guest room and knocked. No answer. He knocked again, more loudly, and called Emma's name. Still nothing. So he slowly opened the door a few inches and looked in. It was warm, cozy and dark in the room, with the only light coming from the glowing fire. He looked over at the bed and saw a mound of blankets, at the top of which a few curls peaked out. He smiled. If Emma had worn a cap to bed, it was nowhere in sight now. He quietly strode to the windows and opened the heavy draperies all the way. The sunlight streaming through the large leaded glass windows momentarily blinded him. He grinned as he held his hand to his eyes to shield them from the bright sunshine, then moved to the foot of the bed.

"Emma," he said softly, "it's morning. Time of wake up, Emma." She stirred and lifted her head slightly. He said, more loudly, "Good morning, sleepy head. I have good news for you."

Emma blinked through squinting eyes and found the source of the voice. "Mr. Knightley? What? …"

"Well," said Mr. Knightley cheerfully, "Happy Christmas Eve, Emma. What do you see?" He swept his arm towards the windows.

Suddenly she sat up, and exclaimed, "Sunshine! It's stopped snowing! I can go home!" With that, she threw off the blankets and bounded out of bed and over to the window. It was obvious that the nightgown that Mrs. Blakeley had found for Emma was both too large and too short. Her ankles and calves showed beneath the lace edge, and with the shimmering sunshine behind her, it seemed as if every curve of her lithe young woman's body was exposed in silhouette. He looked away and exclaimed, "Emma! A _lady_ does not parade about in her nightclothes in front of a _gentleman_ who is not her _husband_."

Emma was already at the window, struggling with the latch in the heavy leaded glass. "Oh, dear. I _am_ sorry Mr. Knightley. But since a _gentleman_ does not awaken a _lady_ from her slumber unless _she_ is his _wife_, I had naturally assumed we were suspending convention for the moment. Now, won't you help me with this latch?" She continued to struggle with it. "It seems to be frozen in place!"

Her argument, contorted as it was, was solid, he mused. In three strides he was at the window, and Emma quickly pulled one of the draperies demurely in front of her. He smiled inwardly when he saw her look down and curl her bare toes under the curtain. It was about time that her propriety asserted itself.

Mr. Knightley pulled the window open with great force, and they were both amazed when there seemed to be a second window before them – a very thin sheet of ice had formed behind the window, creating an almost prism-like effect. "Watch yourself," said Mr. Knightley, and with his fist he broke the ice away. Though a rush of cold air greeted them at first, the sight that then appeared was nothing short of spectacular. The cloudless sky was brilliant blue, and as far as the eye could see, the trees and bushes wore snowy white mantles. A blanket of snow at least three feet high covered the ground and even the distant lake over which the manor looked.

The vista took Emma's breath away. "Oh!" she gasped. What a glorious picture this is, Mr. Knightley! It's so lovely… it's truly a … winter… wonderland… Have you ever in all of your life seen such a serene and beautiful scene?" She quickly departed from the drapery's cover, skipped one step to the stone window sill and propped herself up on her arms, leaning towards the narrow window opening to get a better view.

"Emma! Have a care! You might fall!" he admonished her. He instinctively grabbed her slender body about the middle and pulled her back towards him quickly, away from the window sill, causing her delicate warmth to fall back against his chest, as an astonished Emma let out a small exclamation: "Oh! But I won't fall through, Mr. Knightley. The opening is too narrow."

For reasons that Emma could not make out, Mr. Knightley's kindly demeanor seemed to have vanished. He released his strong grip and scolded her: "Well, I am not about to take a chance, Emma. I've done my best to keep you safe these three days. It would not be a happy duty to explain to your father how you ended up head first in a snow bank." He did not meet her imploring eye, and continued to speak sternly as he turned and walked towards the door. "Now, get dressed and come down for breakfast. I shall take you home right after we've eaten. We cannot take the coach through the snow, so we shall have to go on horseback. You'll ride Bessie. We'll put a ladies' saddle on her and bundle you up warmly. It won't take us but half an hour to arrive at Hartfield. I am sure your father and Isabella could have no better Christmas present than the return of their Emma. Don't dawdle, now. I shall see you in the dining room." He bowed slightly, then turned his back to her to open the door.

Mr. Knightley's mood clearly had changed, and in that instant, Emma realized that during her three days at Donwell, he had not scolded her once, they had not argued, and they had never even shared a cross word. Their time together had seemed in perfect harmony, and she felt that he had taken pleasure in her company as much as she had enjoyed his hospitality. Now, Emma realized, in a matter of a few minutes, her imprudent conduct had made him angry with her. She had ruined everything, and she was very sorry for it.

"Mr. Knightley?" she implored, having moved back to the shelter of the drapery. He stopped and turned back to look at her. Emma continued, softly, "I just wanted to say thank you, Mr. Knightley. For everything. You have made me welcome and have taken such good care of me these three days. All of Donwell has. And … I… I just wanted you to know that I am truly grateful." As Emma smiled sincerely, she hoped the apology hidden within her words was evident. She needn't have worried. Mr. Knightley understood her full meaning, and Emma's smile was the kind of smile that could melt anyone's heart, let alone someone who had loved her all of her life.

His look softened immediately, and he smiled back at her. "You are welcome, dear Emma." With that, he strode out and closed the door gently behind him. As he walked slowly down the hall, seemingly entranced, he took a deep breath and looked down at his hands. The feel of Emma's warm body seemed imprinted on them from that moment when he had firmly held her and pulled her from the window sill. He had saved her from a non-existent danger, he realized, but he had acted instinctively. Now, he could still smell the lavender scent of her hair from when it had brushed against his cheek. And he felt sure that had he moved his hands upward but a few inches, he could have entirely encircled her small waist with them. Then he remembered the low cut ball gown she had tried on the other afternoon, and the womanly bounty it had displayed. Mr. Knightley knew well that Emma had grown into a beautiful and charming young lady. He saw that in her every day. But had it really escaped his notice – until now — that had she had become … _an exquisitely desirable__woman_?

"Ridiculous!" he said aloud.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

Startled, Mr. Knightley looked up to see the chamber maid, head bowed, standing stiffly against the wall. In his veritable stupor, he had not noticed her as he made his way down the hall. His disarming trance now broken, Mr. Knightley replied, "Nothing, Rebecca. Never mind. That'll be all." He continued briskly down the stairs, vowing to put this morning's revelation out of his mind completely and forever.

***


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Emma's return to Hartfield was heralded on the first day after the snow storm. That morning, her nephews, Henry and John, had taken turns keeping look out for their aunt and uncle, and little John was delighted that she arrived on his "watch." The children, John, Isabella and Mr. Woodhouse were all waiting excitedly at the front porch by the time Mr. Knightley's horses slowly finished making their way down the path through the deep snow. Hartfield's groom helped Miss Woodhouse from her horse, and as soon as she alighted, she bounded over to her father to give him a hug and a kiss, and they began an excited exchange of greetings.

Mr. Knightley had been concerned that Mr. Woodhouse would fault him for Emma's absence, and he was relieved to learn that her father's true anxiety had been that Mr. Knightley might attempt to venture to Hartfield with Emma while it yet snowed, and they would be lost. He admitted that as long as she stayed at Donwell, he knew that Emma would be well.

After the family had all retreated to the warmth of the parlor at Mr. Woodhouse's insistence, Emma presented her father with the three letters she had written to him – one for each day at Donwell. Mr. Woodhouse was delighted at this proof that she had kept him close in her thoughts, and was anxious to read them. He settled in by the fire and opened the first letter, calling for Isabella to sit with him so he could read it aloud to her.

"Can we play in snow now, Father?" asked Henry. "We haven't been outside in _days_ and _days_," he pleaded. He was joined by a chorus of "Yes, please, Father" from his siblings.

"Alright, yes, yes," pronounced John Knightley. "Everybody get your coat and hat and gloves on, and we can all go play in the snow."

"Will you come too, Uncle George?" asked Henry.

"Of course, Henry. It's a capital idea," said Mr. Knightley. "Emma, will you join us?"

"Oh yes, thank you, in a little while. My first order of the day is to change out of this dress. I have been wearing it for three days and I couldn't bear to wear it for one more."

"Three days? Really? I hadn't noticed." He gave her a sly smile and she rolled her eyes, but laughed.

***

A snow ball fight was well underway when Emma finally ventured outside. Her nephews decided that armies should be formed in battle – their uncle and father against Emma and the children -- Henry, John, George and even little Bella, who looked adorable as always, hiding behind Emma's dress for protection. Lines thus drawn, the battle continued, with children and adults alike laughing uproariously as they lobbed and dodged snowballs.

At one point, Emma let fly at Mr. Knightley a large, perfectly aimed snowball, which hit him squarely in the chest. "Ha! Got him! A perfect shot, Aunt Emma!" cried Henry.

Mr. Knightley looked down at his chest as the snow slowly fell away, then dramatically held his arms out to his sides, closed his eyes and ever… so … slowly fell back into the snow! Emma and the children squealed with delight. "Oh! What I have I done to your uncle?" she cried. "Dear me! Let's see!" She ran to where Mr. Knightley lay in the snow and looked down. Mr. Knightley opened one eye and said, with a smirk, "Don't worry. It's only a flesh wound."

The children laughed as they ran to join her, and Emma cried, "Not to worry, children! I am happy to report that your uncle still lives. I think only his pride is wounded! He'll recover nicely." Little John reached her as she said those last words, but he slipped in the snow and could not stop in time. He stumbled and fell into her, causing Emma to fall forward uncontrollably. She yelped as she fell, landing with her knees to Mr. Knightley's side but her chest on his, and one of her arms on either side of his head. He instinctively wrapped his arms around her as her cold cheek ended up next to his warm one. She was laughing so hard she could barely get her words out: "I'm ... I'm so sorry, Mr. Knightley..." But by then Henry had reached them, and he let out a shout and purposely dove on top of them, to be followed by George, and then their brother John, who had recovered from the initial tumble that had sent Emma flying. Even Bella giggled as knelt down next to the pile that was comprised of her uncle, her aunt and her brothers, all of whom were laughing wildly.

"John, John, you must help us!" cried Mr. Knightley to his brother. A merry John Knightley used his strong arms to pick up his children, one by one, and set them aside. He then grabbed Emma about the waist and easily lifted her, too. "I say, I think Henry weighs more than you do, Emma," he laughed.

Emma, who was still laughing and trying to catch her breath, wiped away a tear with her muffler.

"Are you alright, Emma?" asked John.

"Oh yes," she sniffled, still giggling between words. "I assure you these are tears of laughter."

"Say! What about me, John?!" Mr. Knightley was still lying in snow; the familial pile up had pushed him deeper into the snow and he could not seem to gain purchase to get up. "Looks like I need your help, too, John," he laughed.

"What, do you say, Emma, shall I help my brother get up?" John Knightley asked mischievously.

Emma finally caught her breath and replied, "Well, the snow will surely melt within a month or two. Do you really think it's necessary?"

"My thought exactly!" John Knightley laughed, but reached down to give Mr. Knightley a hand.

"That's a fine thank you for three days of Donwell hospitality, I'll say, Emma," Mr. Knightley quipped as he rose, "offering to leave me to the elements for two months! Ha!" When was back on his feet, he feigned throwing a non-existent snowball at her, making her jump, then laugh.

"Well, as my penance, let me help you get some of that snow off," she said, stepping close to him and brushing the snow from one of his shoulders. "You are a veritable snowman, Mr. Knightley. Children, come help me." Within moments, he was surrounded by his happy niece and nephews, doing their best to help brush the snow from his coat. Then Emma added, "John, do you suppose the children have had enough playing in the snow for one day? I know that I have. Children, what would you say to some hot apple cider now?"

In response to their chorus of "yeses," John Knightley snatched up his daughter to carry her inside, while Mr. Knightley picked up his little namesake and put him on his shoulders. Emma retrieved Mr. Knightley's hat from where it had fallen in the snow, and realizing he could not wear it as long as their nephew was perched on his shoulders, placed it on top of her own cap. Little George giggled at her.

"Is everyone ready to go in?" called John Knightley, but Henry and little John had already run ahead. Stepping between Mr. Knightley and John Knightley, Emma hooked one of her arms in each of theirs, and they made their way down the path to the house. "What a happy family we all are," Emma sighed contentedly. Mr. Knightley looked down at her and nodded in agreement.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Mr. Knightley had stayed at Hartfield throughout the day. He was to join them for Christmas Eve supper, but given the deep snow, there was no sense in travelling back and forth from Donwell. The children could not have asked for a better day, what with both their Aunt Emma and Uncle George at their disposal. Isabella certainly appreciated their attentions to her children. She had confided to Emma she was expecting the fifth Knightley baby and was tiring more easily now. She did not want to mention it to their father just yet, however, as she knew it would cause him to worry for her health even more than usual.

Earlier, Isabella had announced that Henry and John could stay up and have supper with the grown-ups, if they promised to behave. Solemn promises were elicited from both. Now it was time for little George and Bella to go to bed. Emma, seeing the tired look on Isabella's face, offered to put the two children to bed for her. She reached down and picked up Bella.

"Here, let me help you, Emma," said Mr. Knightley. He easily picked up George in one arm, then took Bella from Emma with his other. Both children, tired as they were, immediately laid their heads on his shoulders, one on either side.

Isabella smiled. "Thank you, George. You are the perfect picture of fatherhood just now."

Emma took in the sight. "Fatherhood? Well, maybe 'unclehood,'" she giggled, and they all laughed.

"Aunt Emma," said Bella, "may I sleep with you in your bed tonight?"

"Tonight? It's Christmas Eve. Are you sure you want to?"

"Oh yes, please. You said I could sleep with you last Sunday, because you said that I am old enough now. But then you did not come home, so I could not. You went to Donwell, to sleep with Uncle George." Emma was mortified; she colored immediately and her eyes flew open wide. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out.

John laughed, "Out of the mouths of babes …"

"Hush, John," whispered Isabella, seeing Emma's embarrassment. Mr. Knightley's reaction had been identical. Then Isabella calmly said, "No, Bella, Aunt Emma went to Donwell to play the violin. The snow storm kept her from returning home."

"And … and yes, of course, I did promise you," stammered Emma, "and so you shall, Bella. Shall I lead the way, Mr. Knightley?" Emma hurriedly led the way out of the parlor, carrying a candlestick, while Mr. Knightley carried the two sleepy children.

They went to Emma's room first. Mr. Knightley thought to himself that the decoration of the room was more grown up than when he had last seen it, when she was a little girl and he had stopped by to comfort her during her bout with the measles. Back then, it had been swathed in pink. He made note of a box on dressing table; he recognized it immediately. He had brought it for Emma many years ago as a souvenir from his grand tour of Europe. The wooden box had a lid that was inlaid with a mosaic made of tiny pieces of stained wood and bone cleverly and painstakingly crafted into the delicate shape of irises. He knew that irises had been, and still were, Emma's favorite flower. Inside the box was an enchanting Venetian mask, sized for a child, brilliantly painted in an intricate pattern of pink, green and gold. He remembered that Emma had been delighted with the gift and had kept it on the table behind the sofa in the main parlor. One day, many years ago, he had noticed that the box was no longer in the parlor; he did not know how long it had been gone, but he assumed it was a childish memory for Emma - one that she had outgrown.

Emma pulled back the covers and Mr. Knightley gently placed Bella on the bed. Emma removed Bella's robe and tucked her into the covers. "Aunt Emma, will you sing me a lullaby and stay till I fall asleep?"

"Of course, darling," replied Emma, then she turned around. "George, let me say goodnight now and give you a kiss." She leaned into Mr. Knightley, who still carried her nephew, rustled little George's hair and gave him a kiss. Mr. Knightley could smell the lavender in her hair again, the same scent he remembered from this morning. It was all he could do to not take a deep breath. "Your uncle will put you to bed but I'll be in soon to check on you, alright?"

"Um hmm. Good night, Aunt Emma. I love you."

"I love you, too, George," she said softly. "Sleep tight."

After Mr. Knightley left to take George to the nursery, Emma laid down next to Bella, stroking her hair gently. She began to sing:

"_Lavender's blue, dilly dilly,_

_Lavender's green_

_When I am King, dilly dilly_

_you shall be Queen.__"_

"Mama sings that song to us," said Bella.

"That's because our mama sang it to your mother and me," Emma smiled and continued to smooth Bella's hair. Then she continued to sing:

"_Call up your man, dilly dilly_

_Set them to work_

_Some to the plough, dilly dilly,_

_Some to the fork_

_Lavender's blue, dilly dilly,  
Lavender's green_ …."

Mr. Knightley put George to bed in the nursery and agreed to tell him one story about King Arthur and the knights of the round table, but only one. When the story was finished, little George had already fallen asleep, but Emma had not yet come in to say good night. He gently tucked the covers around the boy and left to see how Emma was doing with Bella. In Emma's room, he found both young ladies fast asleep, sharing the same pillow, facing one another in profile, two angels bathed in halos created by fire's glow. He could not decide which looked more precious, but then he mused that Bella had been in his heart for only the few short years of her life, while Emma's place there had been secure for much, much longer.

He quietly walked to the bed and gently placed his hand on Emma's shoulder. When she slowly opened her large eyes to look up at him, he lifted his finger to his lips as if to say "shhh!" and pointed to the sleeping Bella. Emma smiled and quietly got up and tiptoed to the door, Mr. Knightley following her.

"May I check on George before we go to supper?" Emma whispered.

"Of course, Emma." All was in order in the nursery, so Emma kissed little George again, Mr. Knightley put out the candle that he'd left burning, and they left the room.

As they were descending the stairs, Mr. Knightley said, "Emma, I happened to notice the box on your dressing table."

"Oh yes – the one you brought me from Venice."

"Yes," he smiled. "I hadn't seen it for many years. It used to be in the parlor, as I recall."

"Yes, I remember. But when I got my first dressing table, I think when I was thirteen or so, I insisted on moving the box to my room. It's been there ever since, on that table. I still think the box and the Venetian mask inside are the loveliest gift I've ever received." She looked at him and smiled sincerely.

"Well, it was a small token, but I'm glad the gift has withstood the test of time." No further words were spoken between them as they descended.

Just before they reached the dining room, Mr. Knightley said lightly to Emma, "I wonder, Emma, if you have been excessively tired today. I just realized that was the second time today I had to wake you up."

She stopped and looked at him as though it was a revelation. "So it was," she said with feigned seriousness. But then she laughed and wagged a finger at him, "Just don't you make a habit out of it, Mr. Knightley."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Emma," he replied and gave a slight bow, though he was disquieted to think that he might do just that.


	11. Chapter 11

Three days after Christmas, the John Knightley family, much to Mr. Woodhouse's dismay, uprooted from Hartfield to Donwell for the remainder of their holiday stay. This had been their plan all along, and it was the same plan they had enacted during every Christmas holiday since Isabella had married John, but Mr. Woodhouse did not easily acknowledge that Donwell had _any_ claim to his daughter and her family, let alone an _equal_ one.

Upon their departure for the Abbey, Mr. Woodhouse had proclaimed that as a certain amount of snow still occupied the ground ("half an inch" claimed John, while "buried in snow" was Mr. Woodhouse's description of the same road), he could not be expected to venture to Donwell for the duration of their stay, absent a significant change in meteorological conditions. Mr. Woodhouse's daughters knew that their father was not intentionally being difficult. It was simply his nature, and neither of them found fault with him for it; they simply smiled at one another, hugged and gave their good-byes.

As she waved goodbye to them, Emma was sorry, indeed, to lose the steady company of Isabella and the children, particularly since she had lost three days with them while she was snowed in at Donwell. Not that she had minded her stay at the Abbey. No, indeed, she found it most surprising that her visit ended up being … well … a complete delight! She thought back on it, and could find only two blemishes on her sojourn: first, her worry about her father worrying about her (though, ironically, Mr. Woodhouse had admitted to being more worried that she would try to _leave_ Donwell during the storm rather than that she would _stay_!), and second, her fear that her childish demeanor during that last morning at Donwell might have ruined Mr. Knightley's view of her stay (which fears were unfounded, she had decided, after a very pleasant Christmas Eve spent with Mr. Knightley and their nieces and nephews). All in all, really, she had been in perfect felicity at Donwell and had felt almost … at home. It was difficult for her to put her finger on the source of this feeling but it seemed, in some intangible way, that Mr. Knightley had made her feel, well, his _equal_. She appreciated this sentiment very much. It was as though while she was his guest, he had suspended his normally persistent evaluation of her conduct (except, perhaps on Christmas Eve morning) and just let her be … _herself_. Although at first she wondered if that was because she had been on her best behavior, she then realized that she hadn't consciously altered her manner at all … and that was the best part! She sighed contentedly.

Her thoughts then briefly returned Isabella, whose carriage was now out of sight. Though she had lost Isabella's companionship yet again, she knew that she would soon visit her sister at Donwell, and she looked forward to seeing Mr. Knightley's home again.

More important, Emma thought, was that Miss Taylor was due to return tomorrow from her visit to her sister's home, so she would not lack female companionship for long. It was a happy reflection, for not only did she enjoy Miss Taylor's company, she missed the continuation of her most recent "secret project," as Emma called it: namely, the making of a match between Miss Taylor and Mr. Weston. She had wished for this match for a long time now, and it did appear to Emma as though some headway was being made. For months Emma had made sure that she, her father and Miss Taylor would pay their respects to Mr. Weston at church every Sunday, and if Emma saw the unsuspecting suitor while she and Miss Taylor were visiting Highbury, she could try to concoct some reason why they must seek him out. Emma had even connived for her father to invite Mr. Weston to Hartfield's dinner parties from time to time. For Emma, such careful planning on her part had become quite an interesting pastime. Emma did feel it a hindrance to her secret project that Miss Taylor had abandoned Hartfield for the holidays, but at least Mr. Weston had remarked upon Miss Taylor's absence at church services last Sunday. Perhaps Miss Taylor's absence might even make Mr. Weston's heart grow fonder? Ah, matchmaking was such delightful business, she mused.

*****

On the second afternoon that Isabella and John's family was at Donwell, after one particularly boisterous escapade involving their two oldest sons – something to do with defending the Abbey from a band of unruly gypsies, they explained in their defense –John Knightley said to the housekeeper, "Well, Mrs. Blakeley, how has Donwell been faring since Mrs. Knightley and I last stayed here? I suppose you think the manor becomes quite lively when my children are here, though I fear that speculating which vase might be broken or which upholstery might be stained next cannot make your duties any easier. I daresay that when my boys are here, my brother's dogs take refuge wherever they can find it. I believe I haven't seen them since yesterday!"

Mrs. Blakely smiled and replied, "Oh, we do love it when your family is here. Your children are so dear, and never any trouble. We are always very pleased when you and Mrs. Knightley are able to visit. It makes me think that Donwell should have a family of its own. Just remembering how happy Mr. Knightley was last week makes me think so."

"Last week?" John Knightley inquired curiously.

"Yes, when Miss Woodhouse was here. It was different to when your children are here, of course, but how happy we all were last week … to hear her music – Miss Woodhouse plays the violin so beautifully! – and singing, and their conversation and laughter at supper, and quiet whispers in front the fire. Such felicity! How nice it would be for Donwell to have a mistress and a family."

"Mrs. Blakeley!" John fairly snapped at her. Quiet whispers indeed, he thought. "Surely you do not mean to imply that …"

Mrs. Blakeley immediately realized her error. She had intimated that the servants had been talking about intimate matters concerning the master of Donwell, and it would not do. She purposely interrupted him, even though it was rude to do so. "Oh no, Mr. Knightley, I meant no implications at all! I assure you! I only meant to say that it made me realize that it would be nice if your brother were … not … always alone at Donwell. That is all. I'm sorry, Mr. Knightley, if my carelessly chosen words caused any misunderstanding or distress …."

"Well, mind you don't share your thoughts, Mrs. Blakeley." With that, John Knightley, who had never exhibited the degree of patience or tact possessed by his older brother, as was made painfully clear to Mrs. Blakeley at that awkward moment, turned and strode away briskly.

*****

Mrs. Blakeley's words stuck with John Knightley like thistles to silk stockings. Quiet whispers, indeed! It was a ridiculous idea, and he knew he should simply strike it from his mind. Then why could he not do so? He thought back on the recent interactions he had witnessed between his brother and Isabella's sister. Everything seemed perfectly normal. On Christmas Eve, George and Emma had played with his children much of the day at Hartfield. He remembered their pile up in the snow, but that innocently had been caused by his children. And there was an awkward moment when his daughter had made some comment about Emma's stay at Donwell that had made Emma blush, but he could not even recall what Bella had said. Was anything different between them? Clearly, there was no different manner on the part of his brother. No, John was certain that from George's point of view, Emma was as much their little sister as she had always been. Still, while he could not directly put his finger on anything, Mrs. Blakeley's irritating words … quiet whispers in front of the fire … would not leave his head. His brother was the same George he had been for as long as John could remember: reliable, industrious, kind and steady of character. No, there was nothing to spark the servants' contemplation as far as George was concerned. What about Emma, then? He had to admit, perhaps with chagrin, that previously he had had little occasion or inclination to think about Emma at all. But he now acknowledged that Emma had grown up, and for at least a few years, really, she had been at an age when she might receive suitors — indeed, now she was at almost the very age that Isabella had been when she and John had become engaged. But, he mused, there were precious few potential callers for Emma while she remained at Hartfield: the eligible bachelors in Highbury were surely not of sufficient wealth, stature and interest to be eligible to lay claim on _her_ attentions. Without question, her prospects would fare better in London, but Hartfield was not in the path of London's social order, and Mr. Woodhouse would hardly allow Emma to venture to Brunswick Square, that Isabella might have an opportunity to introduce her into their society. No, her chances for a fair match seemed small, indeed.

John's next thought was so sudden he was fairly thunderstruck. Was it possible – dare he even _think_ it – that with no other eligible gentlemen in sight, Emma was considering a match with … his own brother? No, the mere idea was farfetched, and he laughed at it. George was much too old, and his attentions to Emma were of the same combination of keen mentor, gentle protector and critical evaluator that they had always been. She was beautiful and clever, John would grant her that. But an often strident temperament and a strong will were as much a part of Emma's nature as her good looks and intelligence, and honestly, what man could ever be attracted to the former characteristics? It really was a pity. Still, what if Emma herself did not see the ridiculousness of such a match? What if she did, indeed, have such inclinations with regard to his brother? Well, obviously her tender young heart would be broken into a thousand pieces when she realized that such an attachment could never be – George could _never_ think of her in such a way. Sadly, not only would it ruin their decades-old friendship, but family relations would be severely strained when George rejected her, however gently he might try to do so. It would be a very bad occasion at Hartfield, indeed, with repercussions felt as far as Brunswick Square. No, John told himself, as far as his brother was concerned, Emma must never allow her foolish innocence to draw her into that sort of predicament. As awkward as it might be for all of them, John vowed to be on guard and, if necessary, to alert George to prevent such a disastrous misunderstanding from ever taking a foothold.


	12. Chapter 12

Emma was so happy that Miss Taylor had returned to Hartfield. She listened enthusiastically to Miss Taylor's reports of her sister's family, and in turn, told her all about her unplanned sojourn at Donwell, from the innocence of the first snow fall, to the violin concert she gave for Donwell's staff, to her adventures with Mr. Knightley's dogs, to her tour of the portraits in the great hall with Mrs. Blakeley and Mr. Knightley, to her escapade with the blue silk dress in the wardrobe room. There were certain details she left out: the hair brushes that Mr. Knightley offered for her use; their mutual teasing about women wearing their hair down; Mr. Knightley's reaction when she donned his mother's gown; and the scene that transpired when Mr. Knightley awakened her on Christmas Eve. She did not know why she did not share those details. She rationalized that perhaps those fine points added nothing to her story, so there was simply no reason to do so.

Emma and Miss Taylor quickly fell into their usual routine. The weather cooperated splendidly during Miss Taylor's first week back at Hartfield, allowing them to walk to Highbury (where, as luck would have it, they ran into Mr. Weston), as well as to Donwell to see Isabella and the children. It seemed that things had quickly returned to normal.

*****

Although it was not a frequent event for the bachelor master of Donwell, Mr. Knightley hosted a dinner party on the eve of John and Isabella's departure. On this particular occasion, in addition to inviting Emma, Miss Taylor and Mr. Woodhouse (who, unfortunately but not surprisingly, declined the invitation, though he did not object to the ladies' participation), he invited his neighbor, Mr. Weston, and the Coxes, who had previously extended to Mr. Knightley numerous dinner invitations without the benefit of reciprocation on his part.

When his guests from Hartfield arrived that evening, Mr. Knightley had a fleeting thought that Emma looked even more beautiful than usual. Her dress, sage in color with threads of gold, brought out her enormous hazel eyes, and her demeanor was so sparkling and charming that she seemed, well … radiant. He had not quite reconciled the feelings that had surfaced about her on more than one occasion during Emma's stay at Donwell, but he reasoned that presenting such a picture of health and beauty as she did, she would surely turn any man's eye. In fact, Mr. Knightley thought that he would not be ashamed to admit to anyone (except Emma, of course) that she was most pleasing to look at.

As Emma entered the parlor where Mr. Weston, John and Isabella were already waiting, she caught sight of the housekeeper down the hallway and called to her. Mrs. Blakeley, delighted to have been noticed by Miss Woodhouse, approached her quickly, remarked that she was happy to see Miss Woodhouse again so soon, and complimented her on her lovely dress.

"Well, I was going to wear my dark green velvet dress," Emma mused, "but then I thought better of it – you and Mr. Knightley are probably tired of that one." Emma looked to Mr. Knightley, whom she knew was listening, raised her eyebrows and laughed.

Mrs. Blakeley replied, "Well, Miss Woodhouse, if you are ever in need, I know where there is a beautiful blue silk dress that fits you perfectly and that only you could do as much justice to as its original owner."

Emma smiled a little self-consciously, particularly when she noticed that Mr. Knightley had nodded with what might be described as a twinkle in his eye, as if in agreement with Mrs. Blakeley's compliment. Emma felt a return of that same happy feeling that Donwell had given her before, and she wondered if that might be the cause of the slight sensation of butterflies in her stomach just then.

As it happened, Mr. John Knightley had also viewed the interchange between Emma and Mrs. Blakeley, as well as George's reaction to it. He wondered what on earth Mrs. Blakeley and George were thinking of, with their words and looks encouraging Emma to be so … familiar. Surely, it would not do.

Emma's interchange with Mrs. Blakeley was interrupted by the arrival of the Cox family, and the housekeeper promptly took her leave. The Coxes had moved to Highbury a decade or so before. As Mr. Cox was the son of the younger son of a baronet, his family was among those who were of a rank that allowed them to socialize with the likes of the Knightley's and Woodhouse's. Like his father before him, Mr. Cox had made his wealth in savvy investments abroad. There were rumors that the investments had fallen on harder times, however, and in fact, the elder Cox son was now residing in the Caribbean, where he could more directly oversee their interests.

Mr. and Mrs. Cox were joined by their younger son, William, and their two daughters, Alice and Maria. Mr. William Cox, who was about three years older than Emma, was home from London for the holidays. The younger Mr. Cox was not tall, and he might be described as stalwart. While he could not strictly be called handsome, with his even smile and kind eyes, he presented an amiable personality; he was not altogether unpleasing to the eye. He was a graduate of Oxford, and a young solicitor whose legal talents were just beginning to earn him praise. John Knightley offered that he had already heard very good things, indeed, of the young Mr. Cox's legal successes. It was well that William Cox was establishing himself in a career, as his older brother stood to inherit their father's financial interests.

Emma quickly took up a conversation with the three Cox siblings. As he watched them, Mr. Knightley thought it a disservice to compare the two Miss Coxes to Emma. The sisters were younger than Emma, both in looks and disposition. Where they were pretty, she was very beautiful. Where they were stylish, she was truly elegant. Where they were pleasant, she was altogether engaging. Where they were reserved, she was self-assured. In any event, Emma and the young Coxes seemed to quickly embark on a pleasant discussion, most clearly as a result of Emma's efforts. The evening was proceeding most agreeably.

*****

Before supper, the Knightley children were brought down to the parlor by their nursemaid for the obligatory introductions and to say their good nights. Bella skipped over to her aunt and implored her, "Won't you please put me to bed tonight, Aunt Emma? I don't know when I will be with you again." Emma heartstrings were tugged sharply by this request, because indeed, she might not see her little niece again for many months. So Emma picked her up and said, "I would be delighted, Bella, but let us first ask your uncle if there is time before supper."

She carried Bella to where Mr. Knightley was conversing with Miss Taylor and Mr. Weston, begged their pardon, and asked, "Mr. Knightley, might I have time before supper to put Bella to bed? I would not wish to hold up the repast."

"Of course, Emma," he replied. Then he lowered his voice, that only she might hear, and added rather slyly, "Just be sure that you do not fall asleep."

Emma did not mind his teasing, as she understood his meaning perfectly. She whispered a reply, feigning shock, "Oh, I would not _dare_, Mr. Knightley, for then _someone_ would have to come and wake me."

"And we could not countenance _that_, now could we?" he replied. Emma giggled, and started off with Bella. "Wait," Mr. Knightley said, as he reached out and gently grasped Emma's slim gloved arm. "Give us a kiss." He leaned in to Emma – he could not help but notice that same marvelous, subtle lavender fragrence in her hair – and he and Bella exchanged kisses.

"Good night, Uncle George," said his pretty little niece, as Emma held her close.

As Mr. Knightley watched Emma and his niece leave the room, he could not help but notice how at home she seemed just then. She might be mistress of this house, taking her daughter to bed, he mused. Perhaps he should find that thought troublesome, but there was a comfortable innocence to it, so he could not.

Mr. John Knightley, watching Emma, his brother and his daughter from across the room, did not hear their exchange, but he saw George and Emma speak quietly, and then laugh. Then George leaned in and kissed his daughter. John was somehow struck by their easy banter; it did not seem calculated on the part of either George or Emma. There was an unassuming closeness between them, and John could not help but notice how at home Emma seemed at that moment. Anyone happening upon the scene might assume she was mistress of Donwell, taking her daughter to bed. He found that thought most troublesome.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Note: I have just three more chapters to this story – 13, 14 and 15. Here's #13!

*****

At supper Emma had been seated with Mr. Weston to one side and Mr. William Cox to the other. Her conversation continued to be lively, and Mr. Knightley thought to himself that she was as charming as ever this evening. To her right, she conversed with the always jovial Mr. Weston, as well as with Miss Taylor and Mr. Knightley. To her other side, she spoke most often with Mr. William Cox and with Mr. John Knightley, who was seated across the table from her. Mr. Knightley could overhear much of her conversation with his brother and William Cox, which seemed to center on the two gentlemen's law practices and cases, the Inns of Court and the like, and while a lesser woman would have been bored, dear Emma did not seem disinterested at all. In fact, she joined in cleverly – asking questions, offering her own opinions and answering the inquiries that were put to her. She was a fine hostess at Hartfield, he thought, and she was nothing less than a charismatic guest at Donwell.

The fact was that John Knightley was doing his best to draw Emma's attentions towards his conversation with William Cox and away from Mr. Knightley, as John feared his brother and Isabella's sister might be addressing one another a bit too frequently, though not to the exclusion of any other guest and perhaps not to an extent that anyone besides himself seemed to notice. In fact, to his consternation, John thought that George probably did not even notice anything unusual about Emma's attentions to him.

Fortunately, the evening continued pleasantly and all of Mr. Knightley's guests would later agree that party was a great success.

*****

The next morning, John Knightley sought out his brother and asked if they could have a few minutes to speak in private before he and his family left for London.

"Of course, John. Shall we go to the office?" suggested Mr. Knightley, assuming the matter concerned John's investments or practice. In the office, he motioned towards the comfortable wing chairs in front of the fireplace, and after they had sat down, Mr. Knightley waited for John to begin.

"I wanted to speak with you about … well … about Emma."

"About Emma?" exclaimed Mr. Knightley. "This is a surprise."

"Well, yes, it is a surprise to me, too, to tell you the truth. What could I have to say about Emma, I am sure you are thinking." John had never been one to mince words, but now he was not quite sure how to proceed. "It's just that, well, we all can see that she has grown into a lovely young woman, and she is no doubt beginning to think of her … future, if you will. And while we have always thought of her as clever, she is obviously inexperienced in … certain matters, and I wonder if she understands the … extent …or the implications … of her … attentions?"

Mr. Knightley felt uncomfortable speaking about Emma, even with his brother, so he said, "I really have no idea what you are trying to say, John, so I think it would be best if you would just come out and say it."

John Knightley let out a deep breath. "Very well, George. It is this: Emma is at an age when a young woman would, of course, be considering her … prospects. So, I just wanted to say that last night I could not help but notice Emma's … attentions …" John watched his brother carefully as he spoke, and then he continued, "And it seemed to me that Emma might be interested in … forming an attachment."

"An attachment?" Mr. Knightley responded. "But Emma has said time and again that she would never marry."

"And have you _never_ known Emma to change her mind, George?" asked John Knightley. Mr. Knightley nodded in understanding and his brother continued, "And _this_ attachment is one that could only succeed in creating an awkward situation for _all_ concerned…" Mr. Knightley's eyes flew wide open at that moment, which John Knightley gratefully took it to mean that his brother did, in fact, understand his meaning. John Knightley continued again, "Yes, that was my reaction exactly, George. I trust you understand me, then, when I say that surely it would be very wrong of us, who are almost her _brothers_, to allow her to even _consider_ this attachment. I do not know far she is attached, but her … inclinations … seem evident and she … she must be stopped. You can appreciate that the situation it would create would be … uncomfortable, to say the least, and imagine how disruptive it would be to her father and Hartfield, and – I must say it – to Brunswick Square and Donwell. She would only end up with a heart that was gravely injured if she tried to ... to pursue it. Surely we both can agree that it would be very bad thing."

As he listened to his brother, Mr. Knightley thought back to Emma's conduct at supper. True, she and William Cox had seemed to get along quite well. But then, last night had Emma not shown that she could get on splendidly with everyone? Were those not Mrs. Cox's very words? Besides, she and William had known each other since they were children, so it was natural that they would be friendly with one another upon meeting again. Mr. Knightley was reminded for a moment that even years ago, Emma, with her outgoing personality and quick wit, had reigned supreme over the other Highbury children. But then he recalled how lively the conversation had seemed between the young man and Emma last night. Previously, she had not given John's legal career a second thought, so why was she suddenly so interested in William's law practice? What could William Cox have to offer her? Then he recalled William's remarks about Emma last night, when the gentlemen had retired to drink their port and smoke their tobacco after the meal had concluded. William had mused that he had not seen Emma in more than two years and went on to say that when they were children, everyone had thought Emma pretty, clever and lively, and now that she had grown up, he could say without reservation that she was beautiful, intelligent and altogether charming. At the time, Mr. Knightley had agreed with him readily, as he had assumed William was simply paying a well-deserved compliment. Good heavens! Could it be worse than John thought – were William's affections engaged, as well? Was there some childhood pledge between them, made years ago, that was now coming into effect? And would William now take her away from Hartfield, away from her father, away from … from…. Mr. Knightley dared not even finish that thought. Could John be right in his suspicions?

"George?" asked John Knightley. "You _do_ understand my meaning, then?" he asked, uncomfortably. He could see clearly that his brother was uneasy, as well.

Indeed, Mr. Knightley was quite nonplussed, but he could not reveal his emotions, even to his brother, so he rushed into a reply. "I … I understand your meaning very well, indeed, John. But I think there is nothing to it. Truly, I believe that you are mistaken ... completely mistaken. I will grant you this, however: I will keep aware of the possibility, and I will do what I can to make sure that Emma is not … hurt. Let us not discuss it again. Do not trouble yourself."

"That is well. I think that it is the right thing to do, George."

As they departed the office, John Knightley was greatly relieved, and his brother was greatly distressed.


	14. Chapter 14

Note: Here's the second of the final three chapters.

*****

Chapter 14

Later that day, Mr. Knightley made his regular visit to Highbury. There was to be nothing "regular" about this particular call, however, as he had vowed to learn what he could of the extent of Emma's connection to Mr. William Cox. Mr. Knightley thought about his brother's words – John had said that the repercussions of an attachment between Emma and William would be felt from Hartfield to Brunswick Square and Donwell, and John was right. It would be a bad affair for Hartfield, as Emma would move to London and her father would be left alone; he would never agree to leave his home. And Isabella, while closer to Emma in Brunswick Square, would be bereft with concern over their father. As for Donwell, since his conversation with John that morning, George had spent almost every moment thinking about that very point.

What was it about Emma? She vexed him and she delighted him. She made him angry and she made him laugh. He admonished her and he admired her. How long had it been, he wondered, since the one-sided aspects of their relationship had evolved into … something different? When was the first time that his scolding of her had caused her to argue her case back to him? When did she first react to his teasing by teasing him right back? He knew that she had long valued his advice on just about everything, but how long had it been since he had started to ask for her opinions in return? He realized that at some point a certain level of _equality_ had been established in their relationship. But what was he to Emma, really, and she to him? To Emma, he was a confirmed bachelor and a comfortable old friend. And she … she was … what? What would his life be without Emma Woodhouse in it? He would still be the master of Donwell and a magistrate in the county, around which he had knowingly and willingly centered his entire life. But was it possible that the brightest spot of each day was his journey to Hartfield? Was it her innocent attentions and affections that made his life seem … somehow … complete?

Mr. Knightley had reached the path down to the Hartfield gardens. The weather was fair, and he saw that Mr. Woodhouse, well-bundled up with his winter coat, hat, scarf, gloves and heavy boots, was taking his turns in a path that his gardeners had cleared for him in the remaining snow. He stopped to exchange greetings and speak with him for a time. Mr. Woodhouse bade Mr. Knightley to continue to the parlor, where Emma and Miss Taylor could keep him company until Mr. Woodhouse had finished his exercise.

Mr. Knightley found Emma alone in the parlor; she indicated that Miss Taylor had gone upstairs to retrieve their sewing. Emma seemed cheerful and talkative, and was very complimentary about the party at Donwell the night before. "What a delightful evening we all had, Mr. Knightley. Thank you so much for your hospitality. You are such a fine host, and you have shown that you are very astute in bringing together personalities that are, shall we say, well suited?"

"Well, I am glad that you thought so, Emma," he responded sincerely, though he felt a great deal of trepidation at her enthusiasm. But it was his duty to ascertain the extent of her interest in William Cox, so he encouraged her to say more by adding, "You seemed to have enjoyed some animated conversations. What interested you most?"

Emma thought for a moment. She continued to have a certain feeling that, indeed, after her stay at Donwell, she and Mr. Knightley had somehow achieved a new level of friendship, a degree of _equality_, as she had reckoned it. Somehow, she felt that it had drawn them closer to one another. She moved to the end of the sofa, close to the chair in which he sat, and then lowered her voice and began, "Mr. Knightley … may I … may I make you my confidant? There is a matter that … I would so like to share with you."

Her eyes were bright and she was almost giddy, he thought. "Of course, Emma," he replied smoothly. "What is on your mind?"

"Well, to be perfectly open about it," she laughed, "I have _matrimony_ on my mind!" Mr. Knightley had thought himself prepared for the worst, but he could not have been more shocked, and it obviously showed. "Why, I can't believe that you look so surprised, Mr. Knightley," she giggled. "_You_, who have so much insight into, and are such a good judge of, people's character. No – _you_ cannot really be surprised. It was so perfectly obvious at your party, wasn't it? The discourse, the attentions! Such a night of perfect felicity! Surely there will be wedding bells! So – what do you think?"

"Good heavens, Emma! I cannot let you be so … so cavalier. Think about what you are saying. This is a serious matter; it will last for a lifetime; it is not something to play at." It was all he could do to maintain his composure.

His stern response caused Emma's smile to fade immediately. "Well, I am disappointed at your reaction. I thought … I assumed you would be happy, but I that suppose that you are entitled to your own opinion. But you won't dissuade me. I know that this will be a perfect match. I do not see how anyone but the sourest of persons would be anything other than delighted by this prospect."

Mr. Knightley thought quickly about what he should say next. He and Emma had squabbled often enough for him to know that the more he protested, the more firm would be her conviction. But he must speak his mind; he could not fail to do so. "Emma, dear Emma, I think … I think perhaps you are still too young to understand the …"

Emma cut him off. "Too young to understand? How could you say such a thing? And how could it be wrong if those concerned are happy? And let me add that _I_ am happy. Why can _you_ not share this happiness, too?"

"Emma," he replied, trying to keep his emotions in check, "I fear that you are reacting rashly to these circumstances …"

Emma could not let him finish his hurtful evaluation of her actions and motivations. She shot back, "Reacting rashly? Is that what you think of me, Mr. Knightley? That I am … a… an imbecile who has no capacity to recognize the possibility of true love? What could you have against this match?" Thoughts raced through her mind, for she was truly surprised. Why would Mr. Knightley be against his old friend and neighbor, a widower, finally finding happiness later in life with an attractive and talented woman who also was later in life when compared to most brides? Their felicity had radiated throughout Donwell last night. It must have been apparent to all in attendance; of that much she was certain. Was it because Mr. Weston and Miss Taylor had known each other for so long that Mr. Knightley could not imagine such feelings blossoming? This thought caused Emma to continue by saying, "Is it impossible for you to fathom a situation in which you might one day come to realize that the person who is so right – so perfect – for you has been standing in front of you for so long that you did not even realize it? Even if you could not, why is it so difficult for you to accept that someone else might be able to do so? Tell me, Mr. Knightley, tell me of _your_ great loves that have given _you _the insight, the power, to say yes or no, to judge true love in others? _I_ think _I_ shall always err on side of true love." Her voice fairly cracked with emotion.

Emma's words cut Mr. Knightley to his very core, but he knew that he must think of Emma before himself, even though it distressed him greatly to realize that her feelings for William Cox, however recently or long ago they might have been formed, must run deep. "Emma, I see that you … you speak … most … passionately on this subject," he said hesitatingly.

She folded her arms in front of her. "Perhaps it is because I _do_ feel quite passionately about it, Mr. Knightley." This time Emma spoke defiantly. She was an enigma, he thought, and she clearly did not understand the depth of these new emotions that she was feeling. But he knew that he needed to keep his composure. He had angered her, but he did not wish to alienate her, if he was to ever have a chance to talk some sense into her.

He took a deep breath, and again, he managed to speak calmly. "Dare I be so bold as to ask, Emma, if … the gentleman involved … has shared with you his … feelings on the matter?"

"Heavens, no!" She seemed aghast that he would even ask that question. "Of course not! I would never say anything to him..."

Thank goodness, Mr. Knightley thought – there was a chance that this was nothing more than a maiden's crush, or at least, that she and William had made no lasting plans yet. He decided the best course of action was to bring her back to reality as gently but definitively as possible, so he asked, "And Miss Taylor and your father – do they have any idea …?"

"Miss Taylor? Of course not! She would be mortified that I was making such plans!" He was even more relieved. If Miss Taylor did not know she had feelings for William Cox, then Emma must not have gone very far down this path. She continued, quite anxiously now, "And as to Father – well, _he_ thinks I still have need of a _governess_! Oh, you _know_ that he does not like change, and this…." She hunched her shoulders forward and sighed in defeat. "Well, Mr. Knightley, you certainly have burst my little bubble." He thought she was holding back a sob, and as much as he wished to stop her reckless plans, he could not bear to see her hurt.

"I'm sorry, Emma. I did not mean to hurt your feelings. Truly."

"You will not say anything, will you? I have made you my confidant; I cannot take it back now, so will … will … you keep this secret? Do not mention it to Miss Taylor or my father, or … the gentleman concerned … or anyone? Will you do that for me? _Please_, Mr. Knightley?"

He turned away from her, so she could not read the chaos that must be evident on his face. Dear Emma was such a riddle, he thought. She seemed so happy about this revelation, about this sudden love. Surely William Cox was too young – they both were – but the truth was that he was an intelligent, agreeable young man, and over time, he might develop into a successful lawyer and a good provider, much as George's own brother had become. In fact, William was hardly younger than John had been when he and Isabella had married. He was not even sure why John was so against the match, except that it would disturb Mr. Woodhouse and Isabella, which he supposed was ample reason. Perhaps it was wrong of them to judge. As much as it would alter his own happy world for the worse, if this union would truly make Emma content, could he, in good faith, counsel her away from it? Was not the most important consideration that she might live a life of happiness? Should he not give up any claim that he had to her daily considerations – if he ever had any at all, that is – if it would make Emma happy?

He had not yet replied to her request, as he was still lost in his tribulations. "Mr. Knightley?" Emma implored.

"Of course I won't say anything. You have my word," he said quietly. Then he reached out and took her hand lightly. He looked down at her small hand in his and absently smoothed the back of it with his thumb. He spoke as a man who had just been conquered. "I … I just ask you to make sure, to think carefully on this endeavor. Do not act hastily, dear Emma. That is all I ask."

She sighed, "I … I will consider your request, Mr. Knightley." It was not lost on him that Emma had not said she _agreed_ to his request, only that she would _consider_ it.

Neither of them could speak of the subject again, however, as Miss Taylor walked into the parlor at that moment, and Emma quickly slipped her hand from Mr. Knightley's gentle grasp. Fortunately, she did not think Miss Taylor had noticed. Each of them hid their emotions as well as they could, and the topic would not be raised again between them.

*****

Mr. Knightley's mind was in turmoil. Emma would be lost to Hartfield. And he recalled her harsh criticism: she believed him incapable of comprehending that there had been some long-standing attraction between the two young people that time had suddenly revealed. Her censure struck him severely, for it also revealed that Emma thought him detached and unqualified to understand love. But what could he expect? To Emma, he was only her protector and advisor, and it was true, as John had said, that they were practically her brothers. Or at least it _had_ been true, as far as George was concerned, _previously_… Now he had to acknowledge that Emma was a far more important part of his life than he had ever recognized, and he saw her slipping away from him before his very eyes. He felt a deep sense of impending loss, and he was helpless to stop it. He felt absolutely miserable.

Emma's mind was in turmoil. She could not understand why Mr. Knightley had reacted so stridently to the idea of Mr. Weston and Miss Taylor marrying. But if truth be told, she knew in her heart and in her mind that it was not their possible attachment, but rather her overbearing meddling, that had set him off. She should never have thought to take him into her confidence, for now he thought her an officious fool. The worst of it was that she had destroyed that delightful new sense of closeness – of equality – that she had felt with Mr. Knightley in the brief time since her sojourn at Donwell. Perhaps that equality had never existed at all. Perhaps it had just been a figment of her overactive imagination. She felt absolutely miserable.

*****

As winter passed, Emma did not mention her matrimonial project to Mr. Knightley again. For the first several weeks after her astounding revelation to him, Mr. Knightley had worried incessantly about Emma and William Cox. True, he had been most relieved to learn that William had left Highbury for London two days after his party, and he was fairly sure that the two of them had not had an opportunity to see one another before William left. But perhaps they were corresponding? Emma would not offer up any evidence of this to Mr. Knightley, of course. And when he casually asked Miss Taylor if Emma was receiving any letters from London, she had simply replied, "Oh yes, Isabella and Emma correspond every week, if not more frequently." He pondered whether it was possible that their infatuation, perhaps born at that a single party at Donwell, might die as quickly. He could only hope. Emma had not mentioned William Cox's name even once, and to be sure, Mr. Knightley knew better than to ask about him.

Mr. Knightley was not at all angry with her, but he knew that had been Emma's interpretation of their exchange. It saddened him to think that she would probably never share a secret with him again, and for a time, they were not close to one another in the manner that they had once been. Slowly, however, they began to slip into their usual, unassuming pattern of friendship – the same one they had both taken for granted for years. Mr. Knightley continued his almost daily venture to Hartfield, and he vowed to enjoy each visit with Emma because he knew in his heart that one day – he could not guess how soon – Hartfield would no longer be her home. After a time, his worry and sadness moved to the back recesses of his mind, to resurface only during those moments when he allowed his unguarded thoughts to drift to Emma, his most dear Emma.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Note: Here is the last of the final three chapters. I hope that you have liked the story. I am rather sad that it's finished– it was such fun to write it!

*****

April 1814

A beautiful spring morning dawned for Easter Sunday. Emma and Mr. Woodhouse had invited Highbury's two finest bachelors, Mr. Weston and Mr. Knightley, to join the Woodhouse's for an early holiday dinner, so Emma was up early to see that all necessary preparations had been made for a grand meal when they returned from church.

When Emma, Mr. Woodhouse and Miss Taylor entered the church, Mr. Knightley immediately noticed that Emma was wearing a new dress and bonnet, and he could not help but admire her loveliness. They sat in the pew in front of him, and the four of them exchanged greetings. Emma gave him a smile as bright as sunshine and remarked that they were looking forward to his company at Easter dinner. Mr. Knightley was feeling quite content on this quiet holiday as he shared greetings with Highbury's other residents as they filled the church pews: Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Weston, Mrs. Goddard and three of her boarders, Mrs. Martin, Mr. Robert Martin and his sisters…. And then the Cox family entered the church: the two Cox daughters, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Cox and _Mr. William Cox_. Alarm bells rang in Mr. Knightley's head. William Cox was back in Highbury. He could not help but notice that Emma had noticed him and had nodded to him and given him a smile – that same bright smile she had offered Mr. Knightley just a few minutes before. He observed William smile back at her with that ridiculous toothy grin of his. The Coxes took a pew off to the side. Mr. Knightley watched William's every move and the direction of his every glance, and anyone watching him watching William would have thought Mr. Knightley was a seasoned constable on the trail of some hardened criminal; such was the intensity of his gaze.

After services, Mr. Knightley kept an eye on Emma and William's movements as they exited the church. He was surprised that they did not speak to one another, and in fact, they went off in different directions. Perhaps they were being discreet. In any event, Mr. Woodhouse was ready to return home in his carriage, but Emma had decided the day was too beautiful not to walk back to Hartfield, so she, Miss Taylor, Mr. Knightley and Mr. Weston set off on foot. They all chatted gaily for a time, but Miss Taylor and Mr. Weston seemed to be walking quite slowly, and by the time Emma and Mr. Knightley were nearing the Hartfield gate sweep, Miss Taylor and Mr. Weston were almost out of sight behind them.

As Hartfield came into view, Mr. Knightley forced himself to say, "It seems to me that you have been smiling all day, Emma, and I am glad of it. What makes you so happy, may I ask?" He knew very well why she was in such high spirits, and while it pained him to do so, he needed to understand the degree of her continued attachment to William Cox.

"Well, Mr. Knightley, I think I must be happy because it is spring. And they say that in spring a man's thoughts turn to love." She gave him a rather sly look.

He did not let his voice betray the panic that overcame him in that instant, as Emma had now affirmed that William Cox had _not_ faded from her memory. "And what might you be speaking of, Emma?" he asked casually, refusing to look her way.

"Isn't it obvious, Mr. Knightley?" She glanced over her shoulder. "I think Mr. Weston will ask her before Midsummer's Eve. Then all of my plans will have worked perfectly. Not a single effort for naught. Won't Miss Taylor make a wonderful Mrs. Weston?" She sighed happily.

Mr. Knightley stopped in his tracks. He could scarcely form the words: "Mmm … Mrs. Weston?"

Emma stopped, too, and turned to him. "Yes, _Mrs._ _Weston_. It has a lovely sound to it, does it not?"

Mr. Knightley looked over his shoulder at the pair that was following some distance behind them. "Mr. Weston. And Miss Taylor. You …. You are talking of … Mr. Weston asking Miss Taylor to marry him."

"Yes, Mr. Weston. And Miss Taylor. Why do you seem so surprised, Mr. Knightley?" she laughed. "I made you my confidant last winter, the day after your dinner party at Donwell. Or had you forgotten that you made it so clear that you were unhappy about my meddling into the affairs of others? I trust you have forgiven me by now, though." She appraised his countenance and then continued. "Indeed, I knew you could be trusted with this secret, Mr. Knightley, as you are my most trustworthy confidant. But I certainly did not expect you to forget it completely! Did you really forget? Or are you just teasing me?" Mr. Knightley smiled weakly. "Oh, you _are_ teasing me. Ha! You had me going for one moment. But 'April Fool's' was last week, so you are too late to make jokes about it! Well, perhaps you simply do not want to admit that _I_ have _perfectly_ aimed my cupid's arrow, whereas _you_ seem to have had serious doubts, did you not? So, can you now finally admit that Mr. Weston and Miss Taylor just might be a wonderful match?"

As much as he tried, he could not stop an absurdly enormous smile from beaming across his face, which Emma delightedly took as a sign of his happiness at her efforts and their friends' impending good news. "Ah! So you finally admit that you _agree_ with me," she laughed and clapped her hands.

"I will only say this, Emma. I believe that you may be right, but if he does ask her, and if she does say yes, it will be because they have found love for themselves, not because you have aimed your cupid's arrow at them. But in any event, I would wish them well. I would wish them a lifetime of happiness!"

Emma smiled back at him. "Oh, I do agree with you, Mr. Knightley. A lifetime of happiness, I would wish them, as well. And if Mr. Weston does ask her, I will be so happy for Miss Taylor that I will not care _who_ is responsible for the match! But … we must keep our secret until the matter is settled."

Mr. Knightley had now sufficiently recovered from his momentary lapse into unabashed glee. "Indeed we shall. We shall keep our secret, dear Emma," he said with feigned seriousness. He offered her his arm, and she took it gratefully, as they finished their journey to Hartfield.

*****

As Mr. Knightley walked home to Donwell that evening, he pondered the ridiculous set of circumstances, the misplaced assumptions and the ill-formed conclusions that had led him to believe that Emma's heart had been pledged to William Cox. He had been terribly wrong, just as John had been. And he had never been more pleased, relieved and thankful to be wrong in all of his life. He had endured months of unease for no good reason at all, but all that seemed completely inconsequential now. He laughed out loud at himself because at that moment, that most proper and discreet gentleman, the master of Donwell Abbey and a magistrate of the county, wanted to shout to the world at the top of his lungs, "Emma Woodhouse does _not_ love William Cox! Emma Woodhouse is _not_ going to marry him!" His world was _not_ about to change, and in fact, it had never even been in danger! He had a fleeting return of well-worn anxiety over having allowed himself to become so attached to her in the first place, but he decided that he would think about that some other time. Tonight, he would allow himself to just think sweet, happy thoughts of Emma, his most dear Emma.

*****

Mr. Weston did, in fact, propose to Miss Taylor just before Midsummer's Eve. And she did, in fact, accept him.

*****

_The end_


End file.
